


Tom o'Felis

by LordGrise



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26554258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordGrise/pseuds/LordGrise
Summary: A wounded cat shows up on the estate.  The deeper the Batclan digs, the less they like what they find...Deep respect and credit to Chris Dee of Cat-Tales!
Relationships: Batman/Selina
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	Tom o'Felis

It was just before midnight, and only Alfred was in the house, when the first alert came in: something was physically disturbing one of the inner perimeter sensor nodes. That was quickly followed by other system reports, that concatenated down to: Estate defense systems were at status two, and alerts had been sent to all Bat-Clan members. The WatchTower of the Justice League was in receipt as well, which was only appropriate, considering the Batman was on Monitor Duty.

The cat knew none of these things; he only knew that the burrs were not good, that one was dug in and hurting, he was hungry, and thirsty, and this house, he knew, would help him. It felt of Cat. Then this - this THING had jumped up under his feet, and he had jumped, and whopped it a good one, because he was Tom o’Felis. And then it stung him, and now it was looking at him!

“Maine Coon or a red lynx...” Batman said from 1300 miles above. “Decent sized, either way, Alfred…”

“Determining that will be a matter of moments, Master Bruce… the computers are processing the genetic sample now. No other intrusions on the grounds noted…” Moments later, the Batcave threw datacards onto the main screen. “Felis Catus. ” Alfred reported. “A Maine Coon, indeed. Male, in fundamentally good health, but clearly rather down on his luck in the last little while, from his looks…”

Oracle beat the men to the punch. “He has a collar. And a tag… and a microchip.”

After a few minutes of no one leaving the channel, it was learned by the Batclan that the refugee was one Tom o’Felis, that he lived at Farmstead 23 off of County Road 13 (“BadLuck Road has struck again…” Nightwing commented) and that he had a world class case of burrs mixed into the mud that had coated his legs and belly.

\---

Catwoman generally took the first part of Batman’s Monitor Duty nights as a night for her to go by the Iceberg Lounge and mingle in the Rogue’s Bar. Just because she and he were now married in their civil identities was very good reason for this to continue, if only to demonstrate that Catwoman had NOT been tamed by the likes of former-playboy-turned-tycoon Bruce Wayne. It was also generally a busy night at the Rogue’s Bar beneath the ‘Berg, for Monitor Nights had the BatClan more overtly active: the Batmobile racing around, the Batclan ensuring they were seen about, and Superman or the Martian Manhunter available to enact the Dark Knight if Batman’s presence was particularly appropriate at an incident. Many of the wiser of the criminal class took it as a night to stay off the streets… and the Iceberg Lounge was an excellent location to do some networking while doing so.

Whenever she did so, she deactivated her Ora-com entirely, so it could not be detected. Thus, she was entirely ignorant of the unfolding situation until she emerged from the ‘Berg, was three blocks away and sixty stories up, and turned it back on.

“ - copy that! Will bring steak to the estate; you going to be okay bathing that monster alone, Alfred?” Nightwing’s voice was warm and amused, even as he obviously rode a Bat-grapple line in retraction.

Alfred’s voice was his usual stoic respectfulness, perhaps laced with just a hint of asperity. “A Maine Coon is hardly a monster, Master Richard… and Master Tom here is nearing exhaustion. He'll likely appreciate it...”

“Ahem. Hello, meow. What are we talking about?” Selina paced across the rooftop, no particular direction in mind other than to not see the lights of the Iceberg Lounge. _That ass KGBeast…_

Alfred’s voice was quite pleased as he received proof positive that Catwoman was once back on the comm net. “Ah. Good evening, Ma’am.” He stopped as he realized the mud covering Tom’s chest was hiding a mass of scab.

Selina knew just from that something was going on. “Alfred. Maine Coon?”

Alfred’s voice was now somewhat distracted, as it was when he was concentrating on something. In the background, Selina heard a mewl of fatigue and discomfort that was not Whiskers or Nutmeg. “We have received a guest tonight; a Maine Coon of some size, in distress. Sending imagery now…”

The imagery showed a huge Maine Coon, filthy and obviously exhausted, laying in one of the large kitchen sinks; Alfred was supporting the cat’s head as he laved dried mud from the cat’s chest and legs. “Oh my goodness, look at you? You handsome guy, apart from--ouch, that doesn't look good…” Her voice became far more like the Bat tone than she knew as she also realized what the dark stain on his chest that wasn’t coming off actually was. “Situation?”

“The estate is secure, Ma’am. The cat – his name is Tom o’Felis - apparently dragged himself from the river thru the mud flats to the west of the estate; I have no idea where he could have collected such a mass of burrs. Most of these are superficial, but he has at least one that is impacted into his chest, and has been there for some little while – days, I suspect. He is microchipped; that is how we have his name, and I will have his medical records shortly…” Alfred’s voice trailed off as he once again focused on his patient.

Catwoman strode towards the corner of the building closest to Wayne Enterprises and her Lamborghini Reventon. “I’m on my way.”

\---

When Catwoman exited her car in the Batcave, the medbay was obviously the current source of the action, and she lost no time in stepping over to it. Therein she found Alfred, seated at the computer terminal, and the scanner in motion. “How did you get down here with him, Alfred? And - Is he – um - stuck in that contraption?” she asked, suddenly worried at the intensity Alfred was showing.

Alfred's voice was calm, and focused as he watched the MRI images stack. “No, Ma’am. I carried him down in a towel, after an initial wash in the kitchen. Many of the burrs came out then, but not all. He’s had a quantity of water, but no food yet; that’s contingent upon what we find here. Initial X-Ray scans were negative for broken bones or anything metallic such as bullets or shotgun pellets, thank the Heavens. I’m now running an enhanced MRI/PSI. As you can see, he’s laying quietly; he has been quite compliant. I think he knows, somehow, that he’s among friends.”

Selina slid back her cowl, and stepped over to the scanner table. Tom o’Felis was a beautiful striped smokey grey, with an impressively leonine ruff. His chest was still marred by a patch of broken scabbing, and large crumbling burrs and the fragments thereof all down his underside and his legs.

**Mrrr-eeep!** came from the computers, indicating the scan was complete. The scanner folded open, and a plaintive, tired “…werrlll...?” came from the gurney. Selina locked eyes with Tom, and his big, orangey-yellow eyes looking up at her in wonder. Unconsciously she leaned over, her voice low and reassuring. “Hello, handsome. You're in good hands. We'll get you all fixed up…”

“…rrrriillll…” was Tom’s response, and he tried to roll on his back a bit more. Selina stroked his ears and his side. “Good boy. GOOD boy…”

Alfred stood and moved beside her. “Ma’am... I’m pleased to say I don’t believe there are any truly deep punctures; his wounds are all superficial. Your assistance in cleaning him would be helpful, if I might make the request? The scabbing is as bad as it is from the initial injury followed by days of his moving around and constantly irritating the area. It must be cleared away, and the burr fragments still in his tissues removed. ” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Also, the remaining burrs in his fur will be painful to remove, even with soap and water to lubricate things; shaving might be the best option there. I – help in keep him calm, so I may do the work…?”

Selina looked at Alfred, and then back at Tom. “Ohh, poor thing. Let's get the scab cleaned up, and then we’ll see if my claws can release the worst burr tangles without taking drastic steps like shaving. We want to return him... ”

\---

Monitor duty on the Watchtower was either a very serious tasking that one walked away from relieved that it was over, and at the same time proud to have carried out for the team – or else a night of frustration and boredom. In Batman’s case, it was usually both.

The boredom and/or relief came from the fact that, ninety-nine times out of one hundred, nothing much happened that required more that log notations. Some shifts, there might be only a couple dozen or so, and other shifts there might be so many that one had to rely on the automation routines to do all the documentary administrivia – but entries were simply notations that this or that happened, and (possibly) what the Justice League’s response was. Whoever the watchkeeper was, they did not personally act, in those ninety nine out of one hundred shifts – they observed, and documented.

Of course, three shifts a day, and three hundred sixty four (point two-five) days per year, meant that roughly ten times a year, varying degrees of all hell broke loose, and getting whatever devil was responsible to stop doing whatever, and afterwards possibly deal with the damages caused was – interesting. In every possible interpretation of that word. Even the laxest of the Justice League took Monitor duty at least semi-seriously.

But the Batman was the inventor of the watch duty, and was also, by unanimous acclamation of the core membership, the watcher over the watchers. Thus, not only did he do his turns in the rotation, when he did so, he checked on the performance of all the others. Which meant he always relied on the automation routines to do all the documentary administrivia of his shift – because he was checking everyone else’s entries. Frustration, for the Batman, was learning what some of his fellow members did to relieve the frustration and boredom of their shifts. Personal investigations, caseload notation reviews, data surveys – The Question was notorious for that – and if not work, then a world of television shows beckoned. Comedies, dramas, soap operas, telenovelas… even porn, in certain cases. And then there were the visitations. After all, the Watchtower was almost never completely unoccupied, and friends were welcome to visit the Monitor room, for whatever reason.

Batman would only document the whatever if it could be shown to have interfered with the duties of the shift. After all, Catwoman did come to visit him from time to time… which was one reason the inside of the Monitor Room was not itself monitored. Only the entrance. Which could be physically locked from inside.

He was deep into a review of Booster Gold’s latest shift, when a very particular alert sounded, one that was instantly echoes by the feed from the Clock Tower, as Oracle’s home and base was called. The estate was signaling – one of the detection nodes of the inner perimeter was being physically disturbed. Then the imagery came up, and Batman had to suppress a chuckle at the face of a lynx withdrawing a mud-covered paw from where it had just apparently struck a blow in righteous indignation – and then was stung by the sample probe. Batman’s humor was replaced by compassion as the cat jumped back and hunkered – it was covered in large burrs and pieces of same, and its’ belly and side were covered in thick dried mud.

Then Alfred was on the case locally, and matters proceeded. Batman quickly finished Booster Gold’s review – his shifts had been somnolently placid, his entries had all been timely and appropriate, and if he liked Japanese and Korean game shows, that was no one’s business but his - and began to work up the details of one Mister Tom o’Felis, as the Maine Coon cat had been identified from his tags. He and Oracle almost automatically divided the taskings of the workup. She had control of the Little Brown Bats, as the fleet of semi-autonomous drones was called, and therefore began the physical backtrack; he first got Alfred the data from the veterinary hospital, and then set up the first round of datasearches concerning the family living at Farmstead 23, before diving into the next review.

\---

While Batman began the datasearches, and Oracle was supervising the gridding and imagery of the farmstead and every single thing on it, Nightwing eased down a back alley, into a surprisingly spacious courtyard. A large semi was offloading, and a number of smaller panel trucks were already taking on the daily deliveries for restaurants and delis across the city and surrounding counties. In the near corner of the dock, Angelo the fifth was going thru a manifest, with a small chill-pack box at his feet. Nightwing stepped over, and Angelo bumped fists with him. “Nightwing… heh. Two pounds sirloin, tight stew meat cut, not even three hours old. Also some beef heart, hanh? Good for helpin’ wit the blood, Dad sez.”

Nightwing grinned and offered an envelope; Angelo snorted. “My Dad would run me thru a grinder if I took that; we know our friends, and this is the least we can do. Drop it on the plate come Sunday, okay? Hah. Get oudda heah. Hope the cat does okay. We could always use another cat ‘round heah if it comes t’be he needs a home, okay?”

Nightwing accepted the box with a wordless nod of appreciation, and got. Once on the road again, he reported in. “I have the steak - also some beef heart. Be there in about fifteen minutes.”

Batman closed out another review; he had time for one more… “Nightwing, send the meat up here; I’ll bring it down when I’m relieved…”

Nightwing grinned under his helmet. “No, I’m not sending it upstairs, Bruce; I want to meet the big guy! Twenty seven pounds, Alfred?”

“Likely a bit more now, Master Richard; he's finished the first bowl of water.” Alfred responded as he dexterously eased another burr out of the mass while Selina worked to release another.

“Sounds like feeding him is now under control, at least.” Selina chimed in. “Hm, that late…? How long have you been on this, 'Wing?” Selina asked as she shifted around to better see her next target.

Nightwing’s voice was pleased. “Not long. Angelo's takes their meat delivery around this time, and I was only fourteen blocks away. Babs called it in, and Angelo the younger had it waiting on the dock. Wouldn’t take the money, either, so I owe Babs a cream-filled from Barclay’s… hate it when that happens!”

Selina grinned. Barclay’s was the most ridiculously over-the-top coffee shop and bakery in all of Gotham, and their pastries – made fresh onsite at least three times a day, seven days a week - were utterly decadent. “Good man. See you when you get here.”

\---

Tom luxuriated in the simple goodness of being clean, warm, and not thirsty or even very hungry. He lay on the thick towel, and the box gave heat in the same way as the Farmhouse. They had even had a can opener –

The hiss from the door was starkly remonstrative. _What the hell is this!?!_ came thru loud and clear to all in the room as Whiskers bristled. Beside and slightly behind him, Nutmeg was – somewhat calmer, as she advanced on the interloper. “Aeiou…”

Tom’s response pleaded clemency as he continued to lay still. “...wrrllll?” _owww… I tired… Hello…?_

Nutmeg stopped a couple feet away and studied the outsized example in front of her. _You’re very large…_

Tom’s ear perked up slowly. _Biggest on farm!_ Regret and worry subtly colored his chirrup. _Not big enough…_

Nutmeg slowly seated herself. _Farm. Outdoors. I don’t like Outdoors. Dangerous…_

Tom yowed softly. _Am I alright being here?_ Tom kept an eye on Whiskers, who was stiff-leggedly staring. _He not like me being here…_

Nutmeg spared Whiskers a glance, then licked herself once. _You’re ok. Displeasure is shown for the two-foots._ She nibbled at an momentary itch. _We were not consulted. They should have known better._

Tom looked at the two seated at the table. _He found me outside and brought me in, he has a soft step…_

Nutmeg also looked at the table. Standing Softpaws. _He is King of this place. The Land of the Can Opener is his domain. He makes all kinds of wonderful nibbles here._

Tom eased himself on the towel. _She is yours, as much Cat as any two-foot I have ever seen._

Nutmeg silently yawned in appreciation. _Selina-cat is ours, yes. She is a two-foot but very feline._

Tom licked himself slowly, dislodging a fragment of burr. _She kind, too... got bitey-holding things to let go._

Whiskers had won the staring contest with Alfred, and came over towards Tom, who carefully stayed still. _You win, little one... I too tired, and still hungry, even after the part-can... This not my place, I know._

Whiskers eased himself into a comfortable crouch. _You're ok. Nobody here wants to fight with you. Have to let the two-foots know they can't just bring others in without telling us first._ He extended his head and sniffed at the much larger cat from a distance. _You already been in a bad fight. But not tonight…?_

Tom sighed and relaxed. _Days ago. I was thrown, fell on bitey holding things, hard - one got me good. Then I fell in the river. They made it hard to swim! Finally got out in mud flat..._ His rill was plaintive. _But I can’t get back home, I tried! I only came here because I had to…_ His eyes closed in shame.

Whiskers and Nutmeg moved up by him, each touching noses in comfort. _That's awful. I used to be outdoors, in the city, but I stayed away from the river. I know how it is._

Nutmeg was more practical. _You sleep. We’ll keep watch._

\---

When Richard stepped into the kitchen from below, he found Alfred and Selina seated at the table, and the guest of the night laying in front of the warming oven, already set to low while the breads of the next few days proofed on the counter.

“Almost three pounds of meat all told, Alfred.” He said, putting the box on an open expanse of counter. “Two of tight-cut stew meat, and Angelo senior sent along some beef heart – “ His voice somehow simultaneously took on Hollywood’s schmaltziest Transylvanian accent, and Angelo’s Brooklyn “Sez it iz goot for da bloooood…”

Alfred took charge of the box, finding two bags of meats, and a third of ice. “Mister o’Felis will be most appreciative of this, Master Dick; he has only had a partial can of cat food, just enough to get some antibiotics into him.” He paused while holding the heart meat bag, and looked at Selina. “Shall I offer any to Mistress Nutmeg and Master Whisker, madam?”

\---

Shortly before sunrise, Orphan returned, showering and changing downstairs before coming up to silently delight over their sleeping guest, who rested with both Whiskers and Nutmeg watching over him protectively. Selina, Richard, and Alfred smiled at her enjoyment, and then Alfred quietly offered fresh mixed-nut and cranberry scones (with salted butter or clotted cream for spreading) to all, with a green tea with lime essence to drink. Slightly after sunrise, Bruce and Barbara beamed into the Batcave, and came upstairs in civvies, also enjoying the sight of Master o’Felis and his guard contingent. Whiskers rose to his feet and came to seat himself before Bruce, who immediately gave Whiskers his full and undivided attention, as was only his due, after all.

“Mrrowww…” he declared. _This is not acceptable._ He paced back to his wounded charge, for after all the Maine Coon was younger than he, and a guest in the House. _Find who did this._ What he wanted done after that was not necessary; he knew whose attention he had, after all. He next eased over to Selina, winding between her seated feet to confirm his ultimate loyalty, before returning to the still sleeping giant and assuming a feline asana, once more holding Bruce’s eyes unblinkingly. Bruce nodded gravely, giving Whiskers the full weight of Batman’s gaze, and he yawned quietly and with feline satisfaction before resuming watch over the sleeping giant.

Bruce and Barbara completed collecting the de facto continental breakfast, and council was held, to the satisfaction of the cats.

\---

Bruce, of course, started the meeting. “Cassandra, unless you have something that cannot wait, I’ll meet with you tonight after I’ve read your report. Is that acceptable?” Cassandra nodded peaceably, and Bruce turned to Barbara. “What do you have?”

Barbara opened her laptop, and her voice took on the cadences of her alter-ego Oracle as the miniature holo-emitter built the wireframe model of the generally enhabited area of the farm, to include the river that flowed beside it, and the portion of County Road 13 that ran on the far side. “This is our model of Farmstead 23. The river is dark blue, here, on the farmstead’s side of the road. Access bridge to BadLuck Road is here, in grey. The main house is here, in tan; basement is in brown, and complies with County records as far as we can tell without physically visiting it. Their water comes off the same aquifer ours does, and their wellheads are shown in blue here, here, and here. There are pipes to each of the fields, but most of them are not relevant at this time, and are not shown. Their electric is Gotham Fire and Lightning, power lines in yellow; the site has backup generators here and here, also in yellow, to serve the main house and the dairy barn, shown here in green. The dairy barn has quarters on this side for two dozen hands; that area is shown in light green. It’s empty most of the year, but is currently occupied by migrant workers doing the harvesting. Currently that harvesting is these fields here and here, in violet; the produce in question is burdock root, which is a specialty item, and is relevant to our investigation.” Barbara paused for a sip of her tea, and her voice became far more like Batman’s than she would admit. “I’m going to hand off to Bruce for the persona dramatis, and then I will come back to these fields. I will simply say this: No way in hell did Tommie over there end up as he is on his own steam.”


End file.
